The Ghost

by The Ghost (epub)

  “Hey, Dor!” said Brereton. “Where did you get your scooter from?”

  “Yeah!” spluttered Howell, through a mouthful of Tizer. “Really want one of them!”

  “Shut up…” muttered Cook, too focused on his surroundings to compose a comeback. Having previously visited both Brereton and Howell’s houses, he assumed – correctly – that this was where John Ray began his journey to school each morning. The opulence enthralled him. Everything – layout, surface materials, colour choices – blazed with the gloss of good taste empowered by ample income. Esther’s walls were bare, her shelves loaded with Toby jugs, cadaverous imps and awkwardly posed porcelain figures. Here, the pattern was reversed, with shelves free of ornamentation and walls displaying what could confidently be called art – abstracts, landscapes, photography. And it smelled good – light and sweet and fresh. Cook was used to interiors fouled by the essence of reconstituted lard and harsh detergent.

  “It must be upstairs!”

  John backed out of the cupboard. His face looked oddly reddened, as if he’d been dabbing it with blusher. He dashed out of the kitchen and clambered loudly up the stairs.

  “He’s got a thing,” said Howell. “He has to put cream on when he’s out in the sun.”

  “Yeah,” smirked Brereton, draining his bottle. “Or he dies – like Drac-lee-a.”

  “It’s Drac-yew-la,” insisted Cook. “And anyway, vampires aren’t real.”

  “Yeah, they are,” said Brereton, “and you can only kill them by setting fire to their hearts.”

  “I need a pee!” bleated Cook, jigging from leg to leg.

  “So do I,” said Howell, “but John says we’re not allowed, because his dad will go mad.”

  “Do it down the grid!” smiled Brereton.

  Around the corner from the open kitchen door, a metal drainage grid swallowed the house’s waste water. To use it, Cook would have to step out into the garden and risk being seen by neighbours. There was no plausible threat of consequence, but the exposure would be unbearable.

  “Is there a bottle or something?” Cook searched through a couple of cupboards underneath the sink, but they were crowded with dishcloths and cleaning fluids.

  “Finished with this!” announced Brereton, handing over his almost-empty bottle of apple juice. Cook removed the cap and unzipped his trousers. He turned his back to Howell and Brereton, poked out his penis and slotted it into the top of the bottle.

  “Errrr! He’s not even emptied it!” shouted Howell. Brereton shushed him.

  Cook held the bottle steady and, after a short pause, warm urine trickled out and blended with the cold juice, raising a little steam. Brereton nudged Cook in the back, but he kept steady, spilling nothing. After a few seconds, the bottle was almost full. Cook zipped up and tipped half of the liquid down the sink.

  “Give us that!”

  He took Howell’s half-full juice carton and diluted his potion until the bottle was two-thirds full of something yellowy-greeny and convincingly chilled. Howell snatched back his almost-empty carton and Cook replaced the cap on his bottle. Howell and Brereton looked at him, confused, until Cook’s half-smile inspired a shudder of sniggers from Howell, and soon all three were giggling in sordid solidarity.

  John Ray re-appeared with shining skin. “I have to use a really high factor!” he explained, in that precocious cadence, every vowel rich and ripe. “My skin doesn’t have enough melanin. It used to be worse than this but I can go out now.”

  “Do you want a drink, John?”

  Cook offered the bottle. Ray regarded it suspiciously – the liquid’s colour seemed strange and the brand label had been almost completely scratched off. But if this was a trick, it didn’t match the mood.

  “It’s really nice,” offered Howell.

  “Yeah,” encouraged Cook, “it’s a new lime drink. It’s called Jungle Juice.”

  Ray studied Cook’s gaze for a few seconds, then took the bottle, opened it and, without sniffing the content, drank deeply. The sun-blushed skin on his forehead furrowed into a frown and he pursed his waxy lips. Cook and Howell caught each other’s gaze, and their poker faces flickered. Brereton was openly laughing.

  “It’s warm!”

  Ray wiped his mouth and, for a second, his tainted cheeks were chalk-white again. He looked from Howell to Brereton, who both instantly shifted their eyelines down into the kitchen floor, suppressing their sniggers. He turned to Cook – who didn’t look away – and the two boys stood there, still and silent in the burning air. As Ray’s eyes reddened, Cook’s gaze calcified into a stare, then a glare, and then – with the faintest twitch of one eyebrow – transformed into a challenge.

  The front door clanged shut.

  “Hello?”

  Ray tipped the ‘Jungle Juice’ into the sink and dropped the bottle into a bin.

  “Johnny?”

  Ray’s half-brother, Darren, hustled his way through the door from the sitting room, struggling with a large cardboard box. He was a few years older than John, but carried none of his sibling’s frailty or whiteness of complexion. He had dark, darting eyes and a commanding tone, reinforced by his pre-adolescent height and heft.

  “Boiling fucking hot! Hope you’ve used your cream, Johnny! Help us get these outside.”

  John Ray took one edge of the box and side-stepped past the others out into the garden. Cook, Howell and Brereton watched as they hobbled past the kitchen window and set the box down, behind a tall bush, out of sight of the street. Brereton and Howell instantly followed them outside, but Cook was uneasy and joined them only when he heard a burst of helium barks and whimpers. In the garden shade, Cook peeked over the top of the cardboard box and saw a squirming huddle of around ten light-brown Labrador puppies.

  “Aaawww,” cooed Brereton, “can I hold one?”

  The dogs trembled and squeaked. Cook squatted down and carefully reached his hand into the box, where it was immediately smothered in a delirium of nipping and licking.

  “They’re hungry!” said Howell.

  “Course they fucking are!” snapped Darren. “They ain’t been fed.”

  “Can we give ‘em some dog-food?” Brereton directed his question to John – which seemed to anger Darren.

  “Can’t give ‘em cat-food, you little twat!”

  “DARREN!”

  All five jumped in unison at the shout – a deep, dark voice from somewhere at the front of the house.

  “Back ‘ere!”

  From his crouched position, Cook saw the head of Frank Ray – Darren and John’s father – emerge from the sitting room and bob through the kitchen towards the back door. Frank – mid-thirties – had a flowing crop of colourless candyfloss hair which made him look at least twenty years older. He shambled out into the garden – short and fat and slow, but with an unchallengeable aura of adultness. He unlocked a small side-cellar and began sifting through a pile of tools on a top shelf.

  “How many of the bloody things did you sell?”

  “Haven’t sold any, dad. I couldn’t…”

  And then, Frank Ray – not so slow after all – was there among them, swiping his grubby fist in a wide arc of anger, connecting squarely with the side of Darren’s head. Cook flinched at the bludgeoning thunk. Darren covered himself with both hands and ducked down low, wailing.

  “I can’t carry ‘em, dad! And no-one wants ‘em!”

  Cook backed away, bumping into Brereton who had edged closer to the path which led to the street. But Frank now stood directly in front of the back door, blocking any passage out of the garden. Cook noted, with envy, that Howell had already managed to escape, but for himself and Brereton, the moment had passed. John, too, had disappeared – probably back into the house. The peer connection for Cook and Brereton was now severed, and there was no sense in staying, but there was clearly no question of them leaving.

  Frank stood over his son, steaming in the afternoon heat. He retrieved a large iron bucket from the side-cellar and clattered it onto th
e floor between them. Darren moved his hands away from his face and glared, hatefully, up at his father.

  “Fill that up! If you can’t get rid of ‘em, I’ll have to!”

  Darren scrambled to his feet. For a second, Cook thought he might lunge at Frank, or at least bolt for the path. But he picked up the bucket and shoved past his father into the kitchen. There was a shudder of plumbing as he opened the tap.

  “Fetch us that block will ya, lads?”

  Crouching down beside the box of puppies, Frank aimed the question at both Cook and Brereton, but didn’t bother to turn his head to confirm.

  “Which block?” asked Brereton.

  Frank petted the puppies, offering the upturned palm of the hand he had used to strike Darren. The hungry and thirsty dogs leapt and writhed, tasting the sweat on the coarse skin. Again, Frank didn’t turn to face the boys.

  “The one by the hosepipe.”

  The ‘block’ was a large chunk of wood used as a base to hack away at knotty kindling. Cook and Brereton each gripped an end, and, with difficulty, dragged the wood across to Frank. Darren re-emerged with the bucket, rim-full of cold water. He hauled it over to the box and carefully set it down, spilling very little. Frank scooped up around five of the puppies and transferred them to the water. They squealed with outrage, thrashing and splashing. As Frank lifted the others out of the box, Darren nudged the paddling dogs back into the centre. Frank tipped the remaining puppies into the water, lifted the chopping block and set it down on top of the bucket. Some water had displaced, but the puppies still had no space for air, and the wood was solid and level enough to prevent any more water from escaping. Sealing the rim – and the dogs’ fate – Frank sat down on the block, carefully centering his weight to prevent the bucket from tilting. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a squashed cardboard packet.

  Frank Ray lit a cigarette and smoked it with steady relish, as the dogs drowned beneath him, and his eldest son sat, morose and silent, on the doorstep.

  Brereton spluttered and sobbed as he trudged away, down the path, collecting his bike.

  “C’mon, Dor!”

  Cook remained rooted, his back flattened against the fence, spellbound by the scuttling clamour from the bucket. The puppies’ watery protests took forever to dwindle, and Brereton had long gone before they were silenced completely.

  Frank Ray flipped away his cigarette, and the flash of burning ash prodded Cook into action. He peeled himself from the fence and ran, ran, ran away from this – out of the garden, across the decking, onto his scooter.

  17. The Big Picture

  MINDS WERE MEETING – SMALL minds, feeble minds, high minds, dirty minds, a couple of borderline brilliant minds. One mind was notorious for being rigorously closed, another freely mocked for its exploitable openness. The Widescreen editorial conference room was pure and bright with sparkling white right-angle chairs and an appalling oval expanse of cornea-scorching lime green table-top. But every Monday morning at ten, dullness descended like a shower of dust. Minds were meeting, but only on behalf of their matter – woozy, weekend bodies shuffling into formation for another five days of PR jousting, flatplan-tweaking and freelancer-chasing. At table-head, and so default mind-concentrator, was a badly ironed light-blue shirt containing Editor-In-Chief Henry Gray, his baldness eggish and emasculating. With precarious authority – transmitted through the occasional thrust of a Starbucks spout-cup – Gray presided over Cook (notebook tilted to conceal doodling), Nigel Smith (smarmy freelance fixture – on staff to cover absence), Alison Truman (swashbuckling sub-editor with jazz-hands for copy-blanding and sharp elbows for gala screenings), Jennifer Croucher (harpy high-priestess editor who had evolved a muddling of rudeness and directness to the level of behaviour disorder), Mark Harford (remarkably unremarkable reviews editor), Warren Plant (likeable and talented late-thirtysomething art director who would have moved on a long time ago had he not burned all his industry bridges as a cocaine-snuffling early-thirtysomething), Daisy Hillman (writer, online editor, Wes Anderson bore), and Leah Barton (picture editor and asset manager who, to Cook’s annoyance, had no interest in the magazine’s subject matter, and who he unwisely referred to – in pub and office – as a ‘JPEG Jockey’).

  Gray ran through the state of the issue, consulting with each team member. Words were too little or too late (never in abundance, never unchased), pictures lingered in approval limbo. The Reviews Intro page – due at last week’s meeting – was uncomposed. (Harford was behind schedule after three days of spurious sick leave.) Croucher – red-eyed after a delayed flight back from Los Angeles – was spared the spotlight, while Plant, as ever, beamed it straight back into Gray’s face, meeting exasperation on the state of the cover with a dismissive shrug at the editorial team’s poor co-ordination on image-gathering.

  Gray clunked an elbow onto the table and half-supported his drooping head by pinching and folding the forehead skin with nicotine-bleached fingertips. He spoke down into the table-top.

  “Nigel, do we have everything for the TFF piece?”

  To Cook’s irritation, Smith had snaffled a dream gig covering the Taiwan Film Festival. Despite Cook’s insistence of his superior knowledge of ‘world cinema’, Smith had landed the prize (2400 words, five days’ waddling around in beige cargo shorts, sweating a sliver of waistline flab into the tropical air) by waiving accommodation costs.

  “I’m writing it up tonight,” smirked Smith. “Leah should have all the images from the PR office.”

  Heads turned to Barton. She was nodding.

  “How was Taipei?” asked Plant.

  “Bloody hot!” said Smith with mock-laddishness, mock-confidence, mock-shock. “Some very strange telly! Good job the hotel had English channels. I caught your performance on last week’s Talking Pictures, Dorian.”

  “Yeah,” said Cook quickly, hoping to deflect. “Not my finest hour.”

  “Very entertaining, though! Did they not tell you it was live?”

  Gray lifted his eyes from the table – towards Smith and then Cook. The room temperature dropped a little. Cook, etching a dreamscape of fangs and fur and spirals into his notebook, didn’t look up or stop doodling.

  “I’m surprised you had time to watch it, Nigel. We all know about the unique nightlife pleasures in that part of the world.”

  And now the minds were drawn away from their meeting and fixed onto what had suddenly become the main event. Croucher drew in an exaggerated gasp of outrage. Smith held his smile, although the expression was slipping from quizzical to defensive.

  “And what would they be, Dorian?”

  Cook raised his head, set down his pen, inhaled deeply and stretched his arms out wide, as if imploring his audience. He limbered his head from left to right and spoke through tensed neck muscles.

  “Well, apparently there are boys who look like girls.”

  The door jerked open and Laura Porter bustled in, trailing a borderline obese man in a saggy suit, laptop slotted under one arm.

  “Hi, guys! Sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to introduce you all to Mark Holt. He’s our new User Experience genius!”

  For Porter, everyone with a degree of competence was a ‘genius’. Plant was a design genius, Croucher an editing genius. No doubt her gardener was a grass genius.

  “Hello, folks!” said Holt, sitting and opening the laptop. Porter settled in next to him – too close. She brought her upright hands together as if in prayer and rapidly clapped them together in girlish rapture.

  “This is so exciting!”

  The guys and the folks struggled to empathise.

  “What is it?” demanded Barton, determined to be the least impressed.

  “Okay. What’s my role?” said Holt, with caution. “I suppose I’m here to bridge a gap – between editorial and advertising. Why do you need me? Because your subscription base is declining and we have to find new ways to attract a new generation of readers. Now if I’m Johnny or Jenny Movie-Fan, then I’m getting all my movi
e news pretty much on demand, as and when I want it. And where am I getting it from?”

  He let the question hang.

  “Movie magazine, I’d say,” sneered Plant. “Looking at the sales figures.”

  Porter frowned at him.

  “Online!” confirmed Holt. “Your audience behaviour is changing. Your content is quality, but it’s not enough to deliver at monthly intervals any more. I’m proposing a whole new ecosystem for the brand – a more granular subscription model, and a metered web offering integrated with mobile.”

  He turned his laptop around to face the room. The screen displayed a new version of the magazine’s logo, modified with an ugly, vertically stretched single ‘W’ which hovered to the left of ‘idescreen’ and ‘eekly’ – double-stacked.

  “Widescreen Weekly!” squeaked Porter, clapping again.

  The silence was violent. Plant released a barely suppressed snort, Cook registered the logo with quiet exasperation and returned to his latest doodle – a simplistic outline of a four-windowed house overlooked by a large sun with a mane of multiple straight-line rays. He sketched wide wooden boards across each of the windows and finished the scene by consuming the building in crude, curling flames.

  As Holt continued, Smith leaned over and hissed into Cook’s ear.

  “It’s Thailand, not Taiwan!”

  “What?”

  “Katoey. Ladyboys.”

  Cook’s text-message alert bleeped loudly, drawing a look from Porter. He muted the phone, navigated to his inbox, and opened a message from Dennis Mountford.

  Dor please call. Dave is up for a meeting. Had another weird letter. He’s had phone calls! Can you do Friday night? Please call. Need to sort this out.

  Cook shifted the phone down below the table, out of sight, and typed a reply.

  8pm? Send an address. Not public.

  18. Heat